


Almost Lover

by TheMalapert



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking, Drinking Songs, Fake Character Death, First Time, Fluff, Geralt of Rivia's Canonically Huge Dick, Gratuitous Smut, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, M/M, Making Up, Our boys are stupid, Roach Has the Brain Cell (The Witcher), SO MUCH FLUFF, Sad Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28250319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalapert/pseuds/TheMalapert
Summary: Eskel likes poetry, and it it makes Geralt sick that that's the only reason he knows his long time friend has died.When Eskel shows Geralt a book that says Jaskier died, Geralt travels to Novigrad to pay his respects. He finds the bard very much alive, very much unapproachable, and very much drunk. Or is that himself? Jaskier, however, isn't going to let Geralt hide their reunion at the bottom of a bottle.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 406





	Almost Lover

Kaer Morhen was as safe as he could get his Child Surprise, and this winter was the most lively since Eskel brought a brick of fisstech. Ciri was a bright spot among old, cantankerous Witchers, and Geralt hadn’t—well, he hadn’t had any sort of brightness since he’d found the bard’s bags gone from Roach’s stall. It was better, though. Jaskier, despite surviving twenty years on the path, was still much too fragile for what lay ahead. War and witches and mysterious powers. It was much better that Jaskier was off doing whatever he did when he wasn’t with Geralt. 

Still, it was a shame. Ciri would have loved him. 

His brothers often teased him for his association with the bard, but even they warmed up over the years. Eskel in particular had needled Geralt about bringing Jaskier some winter. Eskel was a collector of poetry, and he longed for someone with a single opinion about verse. But to bring Jaskier here… would have been too telling. Here where he let all his walls down, where he truly relaxed. Geralt knew he would cross a line he’d set for himself a long time ago. It was only in Kaer Morhen, on the coldest nights in front of the largest fires, that he would allow himself to dance over that line. 

That was where he was now. Eskel was the only one left in the dining hall when he returned with a fresh bottle of their homebrew vodka. Geralt popped it open and warmed himself in more ways than one. And he thought. Of Jaskier’s constant conversation, like a babbling brook that followed Geralt across the continent. Of Jaskier’s scent mixing with his own when he was forced to give up his heavy cloak to keep the bard’s chattering teeth from attracting unwanted attention. Of Jaskier’s thick chest hair. A pleased rumble escaped his throat, and Eskel glanced up from the book he was reading. 

Geralt shook his head minutely, and Eskel returned to his book. He was quite close to the end. 

Geralt thought often about Jaskier’s strong legs. The bard walked through countries! Complaining the whole time, of course, but Geralt saw those shapely calves and thick thighs. He wondered how long the bard could stand while he—if he ever—Geralt’s tongue pressed the roof of his mouth, taking another swig. Geralt fully understood the irony of traveling with such a lewd companion as Jaskier, and yet he couldn’t touch the bard, even in his thoughts until he was apropriately sloshed. He wondered how many songs Jaskier would compose if he knew. 

Geralt melted into his alcohol, his memories, and his half-bitten fantasies. 

Eskel’s brow furrowed as he turned the last page. His eyes flicked to his brother, clearly lost in thought, and he snapped the cover shut. The sound brought Geralt from his haze, and the Witchers locked gazes. 

“When was the last time you saw Jaskier?” Eskel asked. The caught look about Geralt was surprising. 

“It has been… a fair few months. Perhaps a year,” Geralt said, gesturing vaguely with the bottle. 

“Have you been in contact with him?” 

A chill stole down Geralt’s spine. “No. I’ve been busy.”

Eskel handed him the book without a word, open to the last poem. Geralt’s eyes flew through the flowery metaphors. Talk of autumn falling, bare trees and an empty dirt road. His heart stuttered at the last stanza. 

_Blood passes, monsters are slain_

_The witness now left scarred_

_In love, in song, in pain_

_So dies Jaskier the Bard._

His hands shook around the delicate pages. It couldn’t possibly be true. He flipped to the cover, finding the words _The Bardic Death by Callonetta._ The book was dedicated to _a dear friend._ In twenty years, had Jaskier ever mentioned another poet, this Callonetta? Gods damn him for never paying attention! 

“It’s an apology,” Eskel said. “The whole book of poems. This Callonetta is recalling her departed friend who spins tales of a jester amongst executioners. He tries to make jokes and lighten, well, the death. And the executioner allows it, but one day, the executioner is made to kill his wife. The jester tries to joke, and the executioner beheads him. The last couple poems are the jester’s ghost apologizing. Then—then, that.”

“You think he—“ The book dropped from his fingers. It was impossible to say. 

“Don’t you think if Jaskier had taken his own life, he’d have written the book about it?” Eskel asked softly. A strange giggle burst from Geralt’s lips. Jaskier was never one to share credit and never one to pass up the opportunity to be dramatic. 

“It could have been anything. I wasn’t—“ He cut off with a choke. “I wasn’t with him.”

“Geralt, you know it’s not your fault?” Eskel laid a warm hand on his brother’s knee. The infamous White Wolf, named so by the bard, stared hard into the fire. 

“I know.” 

That didn’t make it any easier. Guilt and grief piled like the snow banks outside. At the first sign of spring, he promised Yen and Ciri he would be back in a few weeks. He had a quick errand to run that would benefit neither of them. Yennefer offered to portal him, but he needed the time. Still, after these long dark weeks, he needed the time.

He and Roach tore through the countryside, the book tucked under his cloak. It was embossed with the symbol of the Novigrad Press, so to Novigrad he flew. He hated the city more than most. It was large and stank, and it was impossible to find anyone because everything screamed at his senses. He made it to the edge of the city just after nightfall. The bulk of the people were still indoors, especially once dark plunged the temperatures back down. He hesitated. Did he try to find the author? Another bard to tell him Jaskier’s fate?

He didn’t have the heart to try the city yet. One more night alone, then he would brave the answers he desperately needed. Instead, he traced the edge of the city, checking the graveyards for new headstones. Only the most opulent had their names engraved, but he couldn’t imagine burying Jaskier without some sort of pomp. 

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Even in Geralt’s nightmares where Jaskier bled out in his arms, he was always there. When Jaskier was old and withered, he was there. He’d prepared himself for Jaskier’s death in a thousand ways, but never like this. How long had he even been dead? Eskel acquired the book before winter. How long did it take to write and publish a book? To distribute it? How long had Jaskier’s corpse been rotting? He shouldn’t think about it like that, but it hurt that whoever this Callonetta was got to see Jaskier’s final days. Perhaps it was an illness, and he’d rushed to tell their fucked up tale of heroics and heartbreak. 

A spot of yellow caught his eye, odd coming out of winter and in a graveyard. He guided Roach to the plot, and he nearly fell in his haste to dismount. Geralt sunk to his knees. 

Buttercups. 

Dozens scattered over a rough, blank stone. Some of glass, some cross-stitched, some pressed into pages. A few were even the true flower, no doubt raised in a greenhouse nearby. 

_Jaskier_. Oh, fuck, this was it. 

Geralt didn’t often weep, but he did then. It was weeks of shuttered torment, and it was twenty years of knowing and being known—gone. His fingers sunk into the dirt. No grass had gotten the chance to grow, and he wondered who was here to put him in the ground. Did he have friends who filled his grave? Unfair questions and malicious thoughts raced through his head, each on the heels of another. Roach whinnied and nosed through his hair. He brushed her off, but it disrupted his spiral long enough to hear footsteps approaching. 

He barely lifted his eyes, hunched over as he was on his knees. The sparse light of a waning moon was enough to see the human coming far before being seen. He watched the human startle, take in the black armor and swords but continue carefully forwards. If he was a friend of Jaskier’s, he was no doubt less afraid of Witchers. Jaskier made everyone hate Witchers a little less. Geralt turned his head back to Jaskier’s grave once the human came close enough to set down his lantern. 

“Oh, for fucks sake,” the human said. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

Geralt looked up with a snarl that made the man jump a step back. He carried a bouquet of crochet buttercups. 

“My, my I had no idea you were so interested.” The human tossed the yarn flowers onto the grave and cocked his hips. “I’m Valdo Marx.”

Geralt’s lips twitched. “Jaskier once tried to kill you.”

“Yes, I’m well aware,” Valdo huffed. “Though I’ve poisoned him at least thrice, so I don’t let it go to my head.”

Geralt stood with inhuman speed, the kind he didn’t use in towns, and he grabbed the front of Valdo’s doublet. He dragged the troubadour forward, toes making furrows in the dirt, until they were nose to nose. 

“Did you kill him?” Geralt had never felt such bloodlust, and it scared him enough to let go when Valdo struggled. 

“No! You’re insane,” Valdo said, but then he took a better look at the Witcher. The eyes, the mud on the knees, the gaunt, haunted look about him. 

“Who did?” Geralt asked through clenched teeth, and Valdo’s eyes shot up, connecting all the things before him. 

“You better come with me,” he said finally, turning towards the city. Geralt sneered. He didn’t want to leave Jaskier’s side, not again, but if the man had answers, Geralt may yet be able to strangle someone tonight. The bloodlust hadn’t completely abated.

Geralt followed Jaskier’s rival into the city. He was led to a stable to take care of Roach, and Valdo slipped the stable boy an extra few coins. When confronted with a raised eyebrow, Valdo shrugged and said, “I’d never have any peace if you didn’t take him from the big cities.”

The gratitude grated on him. How dare Valdo Marx joke about Jaskier’s life? How dare Valdo Marx remind him that he hadn’t been there to take Jaskier on the Path again that year?

The troubadour took him to a bar that smelled like perfumed sweat and old wheat. It wasn’t his usual bar scene. Instead of suspicious villagers, it was packed with half-drunk students, undulating and shouting along to the current bard’s rousing tune. Geralt took a second to adjust his senses, deliberately dulling himself to the myriad of inputs assaulting him. He came back just in time to see Jaskier standing on a table.

Jaskier.

On a table.

It was such a normal sight. Jaskier, doublet fully undone to reveal his thin chemise sticking sweaty to his chest. His arms were curled around a lute, and his face was flushed as he pranced over the table. Then, Geralt tuned into the words coming out of the bard’s mouth.

“ _And if life could give me one blessing…_ ” He trilled, sliding dramatically up the scale before riding a glissando all the way back down. Geralt was only mildly peeved that he knew what that was.

The whole bar responded, “It would be to take _you_ off my hands!”

Mugs clacked together, and a cheer rose up as Jaskier ran headlong into an alliterative section that was too quick for Geralt’s spinning head.

“You see? He’s been doing much too well since he came back, and I need you to take him away again,” Valdo said with a grimace. His words barely penetrated the uproarious laughter as Jaskier thrust his hips out. 

“He’s alive,” Geralt rasped. He hadn’t gotten much further than that yet.

“As much as I’d like it otherwise.” Valdo pursed his lips and tried to signal the barkeep for a couple of ales. The troubadour slouched against the back wall—it was basically standing room only—and he eyed Geralt’s slack expression. “Is that why you were at the Duchess’ grave? You thought it was his?”

Geralt silently pulled _The Bardic Death_ from his cloak. 

“Melitele’s tits,” Valdo muttered, and he slithered off into the crowd. 

Geralt barely registered the departure. His eyes were fixed on Jaskier as the bard, much too trusting, fell backwards into the arms of a burly twenty-something. The room shuffled as Jaskier swam his way back to the little stage in the corner, from which he’d obviously come gallivanting to play the barn-burner that was Geralt’s third greatest mistake in life. 

At least Jaskier got some material out of it. 

“We’re going to slow things down a little bit,” Jaskier purred, and the sound travelled through Geralt like a strong _axii_. His mind cleared of everything that wasn’t Jaskier. The stench of the room, the sweat pooling underneath his armor, Geralt gave it all up, and he swayed as the rush of emptiness made him lightheaded. It wasn’t dissimilar from going into shock after getting his spleen on the ground. 

Valdo came back, a pixie-like blonde at his elbow, to find Geralt blushing and half-lidded like a drunkard. Jaskier plucked out something solemn and haunting.

“ _Your fingertips, across my skin. The pines swaying in the wind_ ,” Jaskier began, the melody lilting like an injured soldier. 

“Gods damn him,” Valdo hissed, and the woman on his arm giggled.

“Maybe if you had such a heartbreaking muse, you’d write songs that good too,” she said. 

She raised one finger and prodded Geralt’s armored shoulder. When that did nothing to break his devout concentration, she reached for the closer of the swords. Before she could grasp the hilt, Geralt snatched her hand from the air with a growl.

“There he is. I’m told there’s been a misunderstanding about my book,” she said, smiling. 

Geralt furrowed his brow. “Callonetta?”

“The very same, but my friends call me Pricilla,” she said with a familiar half-bow. Geralt saw Jaskier in her movements, and he wondered, with a pang of something hot in his chest, if they were very close. His eyes flicked up to the bard, and Jaskier’s face was pinched like when he was about to cry. Geralt didn’t _need_ this right now. He was trying to focus enough to _talk_.

_I’d never want to see you unhappy. I thought you’d want the same for me._

“Yes. Jaskier’s not dead,” Geralt said. 

“It’s poetic, darling,” Pricilla responded, and they must have been _very_ close. The pet names, that condescending but still very soft look. Yet, Jaskier had never mentioned her. At least, he hadn’t mentioned her enough to piss Geralt off. The Witcher still wouldn’t hunt anywhere near the De Stael estate. 

“I see,” he said, though he didn’t really see how _so dies Jaskier the Bard_ could be a fucking metaphor or whatever. 

“He’s missed you,” Valdo put in from the sidelines, and Pricilla smacked his arm.

“Don’t meddle,” she chastised.

“How else am I going to get him out of here?” Valdo grumbled, but their banter fell into the background.

_Goodbye, my almost lover. Goodbye, my hopeless dream._

_I'm trying not to think about you; can't you just let me be?_

_So long, my luckless romance. My back is turned on you._

_Should have known you'd bring me heartache. Almost lovers always do._

Geralt’s world was suddenly too full. His skin too tight. His fault, it was all his fault, and Jaskier had already said goodbye. He had a good life here, obviously a good following. This was everything Jaskier ever dreamed of—adoring fans, good ale. Who was Geralt to intervene? Jaskier was alive, and that was all he’d come for. Information on Jaskier.

Except that Jaskier loved him. 

It was obvious, and it should have been obvious sometime in those past twenty years. Geralt always held back, always knew he wasn’t what Jaskier wanted in the end. 

The Witcher turned to book it out of the tavern. Out of the city. Out of the fucking _country_. He’d gotten what he came for, and it was time to get back to his—

“He’ll be disappointed if you don’t say hello,” Pricilla cut through his reverie. Her mouth formed a hard frown, and she continued, “We’ll make sure he knows you were here.”

“Now who’s meddling?” Valdo muttered. 

Deflated, Geralt sighed. “I just need to check on my horse. Where is Jaskier lodging?”

Pricilla already had a slip of paper with instructions on how to find Jaskier’s cottage. She shoved it into his hand and turned back to watch Jaskier play. 

Geralt decidedly did _not_ check on Roach. He went across the street to another tavern where a bard that was almost as good as Jaskier was leading the people in a rousing sea shanty. He bought two bottles of the strong vodka, and he traced his way back to the edge of the city. He would confront Jaskier, just… later. With a little liquid courage.

…

Jaskier was trying to be angry. Really, he’d spent the past year and some change trying desperately to be angry. He didn’t, though. Not really. After the aftermath on the mountain, he was hurt. He was sad. Mostly, he was just lonely. 

When your best friend and most hated rival tell you that your long time muse and love of your life was just here because he thought you’d died—well, Jaskier wasn’t angry. Especially when Valdo had described how wrecked Geralt looked kneeling in front of that grave. Buttercups, it made sense in a quite unfortunate way. He’d never expected Pricilla’s book to get as far as Kaer Morhen, much less that it would make them suspect he’d actually died. He was hoping, quite silly, that maybe Geralt had come all this way for more than a quick death verification. That maybe Jaskier would get the chance to tell Geralt’s family himself that Pricilla had a tendency for the dramatic. 

By midnight, Jaskier’s hopes were dwelling somewhere in the “three months post dragon hunt” pit, and they were quickly being upgraded to _two_ months. Jaskier had told himself he wasn’t going to let Geralt hurt him again like that, but it was Jaskier’s own foolish hopes that were pushing him back to the same agony. 

He donned his winter cloak and went to check the stables nearest the tavern he’d been playing at. 

“Oh, there you are, darling.” Jaskier’s voice was loud in the quiet stables, but Roach didn’t stir from her sleep. Out of habit, Jaskier stepped into the stall and checked on all the provisions. Her hay was fresh and dry, and the water trough had been changed out when the stable boy went home. Special treatment for a special girl, Jaskier thought, and he pet a hand down her mane. He brushed out a small stick.

“Then where is he, hmm?” Jaskier put his hands on his hips.

When the Witcher finally turned up in the early hours of the morning, Jaskier was hurtling towards anger. If Geralt wanted to get shitfaced and leave Jaskier hanging, did he have to do it at the fuckall edge of the city? Without telling anyone?

Jaskier’s fingers were numb, and his back was tight from shivering for so long. 

Forgive him that he wasn’t the most patient when he arrived.

“Get the fuck up.”

Geralt jolted like he’d been bit by a kikimore, but his eyes were slow in finding Jaskier’s. He was sitting in the sloshy remnants of the snow underneath a tragically dead tree, a bottle of vodka empty at his feet and another one nearing so in his grasp. Geralt’s face went through a slow myriad of expressions—probably more in half a minute than Jaskier had gotten in half a month on the Path. Surprise. Processing the request. Hurt, likely at Jaskier’s tone. Defeat when he realized his legs weren’t cooperating. 

“‘M Sorry, Jask,” Geralt warbled, head rolling on the tree trunk. That was definitely not the apology Geralt was going to get away with, but Jaskier could see that admonishment wasn’t going to work here. 

“Please, Geralt,” Jaskier whined. “It’s _cold_ . Let’s go _inside._ ”

Geralt’s eyes went wide, like he couldn’t believe Jaskier wanted to take him somewhere. Wanted to care for him. Daft man. Jaskier helped Geralt to his feet and crowded in close to share what little body heat was between them. 

Jaskier had never seen Geralt this drunk, and he patted himself on the back for managing to drag the Witcher’s sorry ass back to his cottage. It was a one-room thing, but the communal well wasn’t too far away. It had space for a couple planters in the back, not that Jaskier had a green thumb. He had a big wooden tub next to the fireplace that had burned treacherously low. Before Geralt had decided to show up, Jaskier was looking forward to a hot bath pulled by a laundress he paid for her extraordinary work with silks. Now, the tub sat filled with cold water, and Jaskier sighed at the sight. 

He shrugged Geralt off onto the bed, shoved against the wall, and went to poke at the smoldering cinders. A burst of flame behind his back made him yelp.

“Motherfucking cock!” Jaskier shouted, turning to find Geralt’s far away eyes attempting to focus on the bath. The Witcher’s hands were still in a fumbling copy of _igni_. 

“You’re cold,” Geralt said, ever helpfully, and Jaskier saw the bath practically steaming. 

“Well, it’ll have to cool off before I get into it now,” Jaskier sniped. He’d been treated like a friend and then a punching bag and now a lobster. The loose strands of his anger fell through his fingers like combing through a maiden’s fair hair as Geralt set his mouth into a pout. Damn the Witcher for being so cute. 

Jaskier stacked a few more logs on the fire, and then with nothing more to distract him, he turned back on his once friend. Who was staring mournfully at the fire and already halfway slumped over. Jaskier shucked his gloves, blowing on his hands to get some blood flowing. When the prickling warmth started, he placed his hands over Geralt’s, finding them as he suspected—ice fucking cold. Geralt’s fingers twitched, and then Jaskier found his hands seized in a surprisingly strong grip. 

“Just want to be good for you,” Geralt slurred, and _oh_ the things that did to Jaskier. “But ‘m not.”

“Hush, you idiot,” Jaskier said, though his tone was much softer than he intended. Fucking Witcher. “Come, now. By the time we get all this off, the water should be cool enough not to burn us.”

Jaskier tugged at Geralt’s armor, suddenly miffed that he hadn’t thought to do this before dumping the snow-covered Witcher on his clean bedsheets. Geralt went willingly, standing on foal’s legs. Jaskier undressed him with practiced hands, their bodies remembering how to move around each other. He took off his own cloak and boots, even though the floor wasn’t getting any less wet, before gingerly helping Geralt into the bath. 

With the pressing issue of a drunken Witcher taken care of, Jaskier felt his wet clothes start to chafe his sensitive skin. He grumbled curses for winter under his breath as he wrestled himself out of them. He went to sit in front of the fire, ignoring the piercing golden eyes that traced his naked form. His infinite wisdom had placed Geralt facing the fire, which meant he had to stare hard at his own floor while he warmed his back. 

“It’s warm.” Geralt’s rumble cut a sweet counterpoint to the crackling fire.

“I should hope so,” Jaskier said, sneaking a glance at Geralt. The Witcher’s brow was furrowed like when he was puzzling out a monster’s weaknesses. Geralt’s lips and cheeks puffed up from an exhale unreleased, and then he opened his mouth, the tension leaving his face in a rush. 

Geralt held his arms out, elbows dripping on the floor. His fingers curled in an interesting rendition of a child’s grabby hands. 

“You’d like to share your bath—?”

“Yes,” Geralt said in a rush. He beamed when Jaskier hoisted himself from the floor. Fucking hells, if this was how to get Geralt to smile, Jaskier would pop the bottles himself. 

Jaskier stepped into the bath, intending to park himself on the opposite side of the tub, but Geralt foiled his plans. Geralt’s grabby hands landed on Jaskier’s hip and pulled him down into his lap. It was all Jaskier could do to resist enough that the sudden motion didn’t send waves of their precious warm water overboard. Geralt’s arms wound around his waist, and Jaskier found himself snuggled against Geralt’s broad chest. A violent shiver went through him, only in part to the sudden warmth enveloping him. 

Jaskier felt Geralt’s face press into the back of his shoulder, hot breath fanning over his neck, and Jaskier needed to get a grip on his pulse _right now_ . His heart hammered in his ribcage as Geralt shifted back, leaning, pillowing Jaskier’s head against his clavicle. Jaskier squirmed, feeling Geralt’s strong, hairy thighs rub against his where they bracketed Jaskier’s body. _Sweet Melitele, if you see me out of this without an awkward boner, I’ll never talk about your tits again_ , Jaskier prayed. It was a long shot, considering Jaskier could already feel his cock filling embarrassingly fast, but an errant prayer never hurt. 

“Choices are temporary,” Geralt said. If not for the following huff that brought the sharp scent of alcohol to Jaskier’s nose, the bard might have thought Geralt was lucid. 

“I suppose,” Jaskier prompted when Geralt fell into a drunken silence. 

“‘Specially yours.” Geralt’s large hands, now sufficiently warmed, pet down either of Jaskier’s thighs to his knees. Jaskier held back a whimper.

Wait, was he being slut shamed?

“Not all of them,” Jaskier snapped. Twenty years of choices, of opportunities passed over, of _contentment_. Jaskier chose Geralt every time. Was it too much to ask for Geralt to occasionally chose him?

“I know. I was—“ Geralt swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bumping Jaskier’s head. “Was waiting for it to be.”

Jaskier shifted, craning his neck so he could catch a glimpse of the Witcher’s eyes. “You were waiting for me to leave? Always?”

Geralt’s face rippled, and he dropped his forehead to the side of Jaskier’s, crossing the bard’s eyes. Geralt’s hands came to grip at Jaskier’s ribs, and his breath came faster, deeper. Jaskier turned fully, shoving his knees underneath Geralt’s thighs and bringing both hands to cup the Witcher’s face. Jaskier guided Geralt’s eyes, now misty, back to his own. Geralt panted like a racehorse, and he tried to pull away, to avert his gaze.

“I’ll always choose you,” Jaskier said. “Gods help me, Geralt, cause you won’t, but I’ll always choose you. If that’s what you want.”

“But you shouldn’t.” Geralt’s voice cracked, trailing off into a whimper, and it broke Jaskier’s heart more than the words at the mountain ever did.

“That’s for me to deal with, you daft man. You don’t get to decide who I love,” Jaskier said. Geralt’s eyes went wide, and Jaskier cursed. _You can handle an awkward boner, but not an awkward love confession? Fuck you and your tits_ , Jaskier thought. 

Before Jaskier could qualify what he said, Geralt’s hands were tangling in his hair. Geralt tugged Jaskier down and sealed their lips together. 

Oh, it was so bad. Geralt was trying so hard, and the harder he tried, the worse his mouth cooperated. Jaskier attempted to save the kiss at first, using his position to rise over Geralt, tipping the Witcher’s head back, trying to control the desperate quiver in Geralt’s wet lips. But eventually, Jaskier let Geralt take his fill. Never let it be said that Geralt was a quitter. He tried for much longer than Jaskier anticipated before realizing the bard had gone still. 

Geralt pulled back. His face pinched, and he wiped his forearm over his spit-soaked mouth. Jaskier pulled away from Geralt’s grip and brought some of the bathwater to splash at his face. Geralt’s breathing had passed from frantic to simply labored, like kissing Jaskier had been enough cardio to wind a Witcher. 

“Maybe,” Geralt began, licking his lips and glancing down Jaskier’s body. The pitiful first kiss hadn’t been enough to get Jaskier all the way there, but his half-hard cock was resting just beneath the water’s surface. “Maybe I could kiss you again in the morning?”

“What an excellent idea, darling,” Jaskier praised. Geralt glowed when Jaskier dropped a kiss to his nose. 

It was a struggle to get Geralt to stay in the bath long enough to actually accomplish any bathing. The Witcher wanted to get to the bed to get to the sleeping to get to the tomorrow, and he’d only calmed when Jaskier had made it very clear there would be _no_ kissing if Geralt still smelled like Roach. It was a lie, considering Geralt always smelled like Roach, and that would be horrifically limiting to Jaskier’s future prospects… But if there was going to be fucking in the morning—which Jaskier could only hope there would be—Jaskier was going to make their first time at least a _clean_ one. 

Not that he hadn’t imagined Geralt, sweaty and dirty from a day’s travel, bending Jaskier over their bedrolls and having him in the forest. Or when he got a glimpse of Geralt’s black, potion-addled eyes, and Jaskier wanted nothing more than for Geralt to take out all that excess battle energy pounding Jaskier’s ass. But those times were for later, he told himself, even as his cock insisted now! Now!

After drying off and stoking the fire one last time, Jaskier was snatched by his hips, tumbling into his own bed. He put up a token fight, twisting in the sheets, and squirming away from Geralt’s huffed laughs. He finally stilled when the sheets had twisted around him enough to immobilize his left leg, and Geralt had his arms pinned behind his back. Geralt smiled wickedly and ducked to deliver a line of sloppy kisses up Jaskier’s neck. One hand slid down to grip Jaskier’s growing bulge beneath the sheets, and Jaskier let out a decadent moan. 

“That’s unfair, darling, what happened to going to sleep?” Jaskier gasped as Geralt palmed him harshly. His hips bucked of their own accord, and Geralt’s teeth slid off his shoulder in a failed attempt to bite.

“Wanna jerk you off first,” Geralt said, and Jaskier melted.

“When you put it like that,” Jaskier breathed, groaning when Geralt’s hand snuck underneath the snarled sheets.

“Gunna be so good for you tomorrow.” Geralt started pumping Jaskier in earnest, a fumbling grip that was working because it was _Geralt_ , and he was saying such sweet, dirty things. It was a little dry, even damp as he was from the bath, but as Geralt painted him such sinful pictures, Jaskier’s cock started leaking, slicking the way. The words tumbled past Geralt’s lips, raspy and low and perfect, “Gunna fuck you however you like, or you fuck me however you like—“

Jaskier moaned at that, fucking up into Geralt’s fist.

“Should have done this years ago. Too much of a fucking coward,” Geralt said. “I knew you wanted me. Knew you’d let me do anything to you, and I _wanted to, fuck.”_

“Geralt,” Jaskier choked, hands finally moving to tear at the sheets around his legs. “I’m not going to sleep in come sheets, you— _fuck_ —you brute.”

Geralt lifted Jaskier clear off the bed, and the bard’s legs kicked, succeeding in ridding himself of the bedsheets. Geralt crashed back into the bed, yanking Jaskier into straddling his stomach. Without hesitation, he brought his hand back to Jaskier’s red, weeping cock, dragging a desperate cry from his bard.

“Come on me. Want your mark. Want to smell like you, missed your scent _so fucking much_ —“

Jaskier came with a sob, bracing himself on Geralt's shoulders as he spilled over Geralt’s chest. The Witcher growled, milking his bard through the entire orgasm until Jaskier let out a whine, hips shifting away. Geralt let Jaskier sit up, petting over the bard’s flank with his unsoiled hand. The other, coated with Jaskier’s spend, came up to Geralt’s mouth, and he slipped the meat of his palm into his mouth with a groan. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier panted, the sound punched out of him. Geralt’s eyes, not as cloudy as only an hour ago, fixed on Jaskier as he cleaned his hand with his tongue. 

Jaskier collapsed to the side and burrowed underneath the blankets. Geralt leaned over the edge of the bed, snagging his shirt from where it had been discarded. He watched Jaskier turn red all over again when he mopped the bard’s come off his chest with the black cloth. 

“Gunna smell like you even after I wash it,” Geralt slurred, swaying where he’d been sitting up. Jaskier pulled his Witcher down, cuddling into his broad warmth. Geralt hummed, the scent of sex heavy in his nose, and he tried again to kiss Jaskier.

It was better this time, though Jaskier couldn’t say if that was because he was floating on endorphins or not. Geralt’s hurry was gone, and he let Jaskier pull the kiss in the right direction. The Witcher’s hips shifted, pushing his soft cock against the meat of Jaskier’s thigh. Geralt broke the kiss with a pout. He glared into the shadows between their bodies. 

“My cock is broken,” he whined. Jaskier caught his laughter right behind his teeth, having to bury his face in the Witcher’s neck to keep from mocking him. 

“Well, if you’d hurry to sleep like you said you would, maybe your powerful mutant healing will have you sorted out by morning,” Jaskier said, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s jugular.

“Gunna be so good for you,” Geralt said. It was chased by a cute little yawn. “Like I always should have been.”

“Goodnight, love,” Jaskier said softly.

Jaskier’s awareness floated between sleep and waking. He couldn’t tell if the soft sounds of habitation were a dream or real which led his mind down the path of _why would it be real?_ Jaskier lived alone, didn’t he? But he had visitors, occasionally, and by the lingering scent of sex, he wagered he had a very lovely guest in his home. He didn’t question it when a warm body draped itself over him, pressed against his back. It was the massive, hard cock wedged between his asscheeks that really pushed him into reality. 

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier said, though it was more of a groan than a word. 

“Hmmm, you were right. I’m good as new,” Geralt teased. He rocked his cock slowly against Jaskier’s ass, letting the bard feel every gloriously thick inch. 

“Oh, fuck me,” Jaskier pleaded, whimpering when he felt Geralt’s hands spread him apart, baring his puckered hole for Geralt’s hungry gaze. What a way to wake up. Geralt’s fingers were already slick, and Jaskier was distantly impressed with his sober foresight. Then he remembered the Witcher had waited for this just as long as Jaskier and threw every thought out except expedience. 

Geralt didn’t seem to get the memo, even as Jaskier writhed back against the fingers that petted over his hole. Slick and dripping on the outside, finally Geralt pressed his thumb past the tight entrance. Jaskier’s mouth lolled open, feeling a quiet pleasure sparkling up his spine. Geralt made no move to add more, content to stroke the fat digit back and forth until Jaskier was near panting for it. 

“I had a lot of time to think before I found you,” Geralt rumbled.

Jaskier pulled in a breath when Geralt’s thumb sunk past the knuckle. “You thought I was dead,” Jaskier managed to reply, not even sure himself if it was a question. 

“I did,” Geralt said. His hands flexed over Jaskier’s ass as he started to pull his thumb back. “I thought of all the things I wanted to say to you that I never got the chance. To apologize for what I said on the dragon hunt. To tell you more about my family, take you to meet them. Gods, I’d give anything to fuck you in my bed, back at Kaer Morhen.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jaskier hissed. Geralt pressed two fingers alongside his thumb, and the stretch was _glorious_. Geralt’s fingers were so fucking thick, and his cock was going to be even better. Jaskier’s hands twisted in the sheets as he tried to be patient, to let Geralt play how he wanted, even if the Witcher was being a complete fucking tease. Geralt’s thumb didn’t move, a steady pressure against his rim, and Geralt swirled, twisted, fucked his other two fingers as deep as he could. Searching. 

“Kaer Morhen is the only place I’d let myself think about you. Touching myself how I thought you’d touch me. Imagining all the ways I’d make you scream.” Geralt’s sword callused fingers struck true, making Jaskier jerk, a spurt of precome wetting the sheets. Geralt purred, “There you are.”

He struck that place again, and Jaskier sobbed out Geralt’s name, mindlessly rutting against the bed. Geralt rubbed that electric spot, at the same time tugging apart his thumb and fingers, preparing Jaskier for his cock. Deeming the bard stretched enough, Geralt pulled his hands away, any reluctance washed out by a feverish anticipation. He was _finally_ getting what he wanted. _Finally_ having his bard. 

Geralt landed a smack on Jaskier’s ass, leaving behind a slick handprint. The bard jumped, and then a truly desperate sound came muffled where Jaskier pressed his face into the bed. Geralt filed that away for later and flipped Jaskier onto his back. He was only disoriented for a second, and then his hot gaze was tracing over Geralt’s body, down to the huge cock jutting from wiry, gray hairs. 

“You keep distracting me,” Geralt admonished, delivering another slap over Jaskier’s already reddened ass. The bard didn’t even try to hold back the filthy moan, arching towards Geralt like a puppet raised by its master. 

“I want to,” Jaskier said with an impish grin. 

“I was talking about what I wanted to say to you, what I thought I’d never get the chance to say.” 

Geralt tugged Jaskier’s hips up, bunching the tangled sheets under the bard’s ass. He lined himself up, teasing Jaskier’s hole with the blunt head of his cock. Before Jaskier could shove himself down onto the cock he’d wanted for _decades_ , Geralt leaned over to the bedside table to grab the bottle of oil he’d used to open Jaskier up. The bard recognized it as his own slick, meaning that _Geralt_ had recognized it, meaning that Geralt had known every time Jaskier had taken that oil from his pack. Known that Jaskier was off to finger himself in the woods or get railed by one of the local lads. Jaskier panted out a string of half-curses as he watched Geralt pour the oil down his cock. Jaskier felt it hit the edge of his hole, sliding down to drip off his balls.

“Please, Geralt, _please_.” Jaskier reached down to take himself in hand, just to take some of the edge off, but Geralt pinned his hand to his side. 

“Watch,” Geralt demanded, and Jaskier couldn’t help but blink owlishly at where Geralt spread the oil liberally over his cock. The Witcher too glanced down as he pushed steadily into Jaskier’s wet, willing body.

Jaskier’s eyes rolled back in his head. Geralt’s cock split him open so fucking perfectly, the burn and stretch just enough to ground him against the pleasure that lit every shivering nerve. His eyes flew open, mouth pouting in betrayal, when Geralt stopped not even halfway in. His Witcher was glaring at him hard, nostrils flaring with every heavy breath. Jaskier’s mind turned dumbly, every thought consumed by the hot weight inside him, until he obediently dropped his gaze back to where Geralt was wedged between his legs. 

His Witcher smiled, a feral glint in his eye, as he resumed his slow conquering. The feeling, the sight of it, the _fullness_ —by the time their hips sat flush, Jaskier was trembling. Geralt’s mouth had fallen open, and he was freely panting. His tongue fumbled, something important just past the pulsating pleasure.

Finally, he managed to gasp, “I realized there’s only one thing I need to tell you.”

“ _Geralt_.” Jaskier’s hands twisted into Geralt’s frizzed hair, pulling him down to frantically press their lips together. 

And, _gods_ , this was much better than last night. Geralt still let him lead the kiss, but his Witcher was downright feisty, nipping and tugging and licking until Jaskier was squirming on his cock, silently begging him to move. Geralt pulled away, dropping his forehead to Jaskier’s shoulder. He gave one experimental thrust, pulling back just enough to scramble Jaskier’s brain when he snapped back in. 

“I love you,” Geralt said breathlessly. 

“Holy _fuck_ , yes, love. Fuck me!” 

Geralt started to move in earnest, his patience evaporated like so much smoke. Jaskier was too pretty, practically crying for it, and Geralt obliged, fucking as hard as he dared. Each powerful thrust was accompanied by a punched-out moan from Jaskier, rising and falling in pitch like he was composing his own filthy song, just for them. But the angle—Geralt hitched Jaskier’s legs higher, bracing one arm underneath his bard, letting him slide that much deeper. Jaskier _wailed_ , scratching at Geralt’s scalp and digging his nails into the sweaty tangles at his nape. Geralt hefted one leg even higher, any higher and it would be over his shoulder, lifting Jaskier’s hips from the bed. When he pounded back in, Jaskier’s mouth fell open, making the full circle from screaming to silence as the overwhelming wash of pleasure drowned out his mindless sounds. 

“Good?” Geralt rasped, half cocky, half worried that still, _still_ he wasn’t enough. Wasn’t being _good_ for his bard, his Jaskier. 

“Yes, sweet gods, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice was wrecked, wouldn’t be performing for a few days, and a savage flicker of satisfaction lit in the Witcher’s chest. His cock pulsed, so close, but he held off, gripping Jaskier tight enough to leave bruises.

Jaskier felt it, felt the familiar waves of desperation pouring from Geralt, and he continued, “Geralt, _Geralt._ So good for me. Nobody else as good, just you. Always you.”

The words put Geralt over the edge, and he pressed as close as he could, spilling deep inside Jaskier. The bard’s hand flew to his cock, stripping it with mad abandon. The sensation of Geralt’s spend filling Jaskier to the brim, and his own hand on his cock, and then Geralt started grinding in small circles, _still coming inside him_. 

Jaskier fell. 

The orgasm washed over him, drowning him in white-hot pleasure. Every nerve alight, vision blotting out, and then slowly, it turned into a soft fog. Jaskier blinked a layer of tears from his eyes until he found his Witcher, watching him with a smile so heart-twistingly soft. 

“Did you mean it?” Jaskier breathed. 

Geralt put his bard down carefully, fingers caressing over future bruises, and he slipped out. Jaskier’s breath left him in a huff as Geralt’s come leaked from his stretched hole. Geralt massaged the sore muscle with two fingers, leaning down to kiss his bard. He slipped the fingers inside just for a moment, plugging Jaskier up, playing with his own come inside his lover. Jaskier was going to smell like him for _weeks_. For ever. 

“I love you,” Geralt repeated, saying the words to Jaskier’s lips as if he could imprint them there. 

“I love you too,” Jaskier said.

After copious amounts of clean up, becoming mutually distracted with mouths on cocks, and breakfast, Jaskier lounged on his stomach, still in disbelief that Geralt was there, in his bed, that Geralt loved him. 

“I want you to come to Kaer Morhen with me,” Geralt said. 

“Like, next winter? I would love to, darling. I always hated parting with you for the season,” Jaskier admitted, and Geralt smiled like he’d been given a gift. Jaskier was determined to shower Geralt with all the loving secrets they’d both kept out of fear. 

“I actually mean soon. As soon as you can? You know Cintra fell.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up, “You saved Cirilla?”

“She saved herself,” Geralt chuckled. “But yes, I have my Child Surprise now. Nilfgaard wants her, and we can’t risk dragging her out on the Path. The plan was to train her for a few years, in combat and magic, but I… had to find you.”

“Because you thought I was dead,” Jaskier snorted.

“Because I love you.” Geralt kissed his bard again, thrilling that he could do that anytime he wanted now. 

“You’ve sold me,” Jaskier said dreamily. “What will we do when Cirilla is otherwise occupied, a drafty keep to ourselves? I know spring is blossoming, darling, but I’m of a delicate constitution. I’ll need constant warming with those wretched northern winds—“

Geralt rolled, perching atop his lover’s thighs. They’d talk about working on the keep later. They’d talk about Yennefer later. About Vesemir. About Ciri’s powers. Nilfgaard. But right now, nothing was more important than—

“ _Jaskier_.” Geralt leaned down for not the first and not the last of many, many kisses. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> As always, love to know what you think!


End file.
